October 19th, 2012
by Sticky Computer Keys
Summary: Not all tragedies in life have a warning beforehand. Some just whisk you away... Stanley learns this the hard way when his brother's PTSD kicks in during a fishing trip and things take a tear-jerking turn. (Rated M for violence and tear-inducing sadness!)


October 19th, 2012. Dead leaves swirled across the pavement in the chill wind, fluttering into one another and piling up against everything that stands still. Trees, houses, lamp posts-all hugged by leaves. Not too many leaves, thanks to the amount of pines around-but enough to make the cool weather all the more pleasurable. Despite the dark clouds rolling in overhead, it was a good day. A damp day, but a good day.

That was the day my brother was taken from me for good. That was the day I sat in shock as an ambulance wheeled up, hardly processing what had just happened as everything veered in and out of blaring intensity to terrifying numbness. That was the day I got pats on the back, sorrowful hugs, repeated phrases from everyone in Gravity Falls as they all learned the news and lined up to say how sorry they were.

"He was a good guy, Stan. I'm sure he's happier wherever he is now."

"I never really saw him, I'm so sorry to hear..."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"We made you a casserole."

"What size coffin do you need?"

"That driver should have been going slower-it's not your fault! You could sue him! I think..."

"It's not your fault, Stan."

"At least it was quick, Stan. He couldn't've felt a thing."

I hate that one the most. "At least it was quick". Funeral arrangements aside-that's just rude. It's like saying: "So sorry your twin brother just died even though you just got him back, but look on the bright side-he died fast!"

It keeps replaying in my head, over and over again.

The autumn day that started off so nice. The leaves, the wind, the air-the dampness. The smell of crisp fall-time. Pumpkins sitting outside doorways, people wearing fluffy scarves and scratchy sweaters-wool hats that make their heads shrink.

We crunched through the leaves, abandoning the car so we could weave our way down a slippery Oregon trail. Being careful of our footing-fishing poles over our shoulders, tackle boxes at our sides. It was an oddly warm day for October, and we hadn't really gotten out of the house in a while-Ford was getting antsy-so, what the heck, we decided to go fishing. It was a nice day.

The trees opened up onto a long stretch of wild grass that took a gradual descent to our right, down to the highway. To our left, it descended for only a short while-melding back into flat, dewy ground. Several yards from that was a pond-tucked nicely into a circle of overgrown underbrush and twisted, old trees. I vaguely remember promising Ford that nothing would pop out at us.

Not from that direction it wouldn't.

A gunshot went off, birds scattered into the air from the pond-a dog barked wildly as a duck fell into the water. It was just a hunter and his dog, but Ford wasn't looking-he was staring off in another direction, thinking about unicorns or something-and he panicked. Something about that gunshot must have reminded him of something bad, because for a second he froze up, eyes growing huge and vacant, mouth kind of caught in this anxious whisper-scream that only he could hear. It was like he wasn't seeing what was really there, like he was caught up in his own mind-because that gunshot really jarred him.

He went running, slipping and sliding down the slope away from the pond like his life depended on it. I yelled for him to come back, explaining that it was just a hunter, but he kept running. Running and tumbling and screaming at the top of his lungs like _I_ was the monster now.

He hit the road with his boots, swayed between the grass and the asphalt as he managed his balance, then barreled forward. Taking one, big, terrified leap like he was trying to cross the whole road in one jump-like he didn't expect gravity to pull him back so soon, or he expected his adrenaline to carry him forward by another few yards.

In that split second before the huge logging truck made contact with my brother, his head turned back to look-eyes still wide with the terror of some past thing, but now with the tiniest spark of confusion. He hung there, suspended in time, as everything slowed down and he began to realize that maybe there wasn't any danger after all, that maybe it was his brother calling him instead of whatever he thought it was.

Then he was whipped away with all the forces of a metal tornado. The sickening, bone-shattering _thump_ blending in with the roar of the engine and the rush of air. It carried him three yards, five yards, seven, eight-eleven-it carried him fifteen yards before it stopped, swerving away as the driver panicked.

I ran. My heart left me, my voice screamed out over and over, legs pumping up and down with such a fast, powerful rhythm-there's no way I could have gone that fast without the boost of adrenaline. I screamed so hard my lungs left me too, and I couldn't tell if I was still screaming or if it was the blood pounding through my ears.

First one boot flew off from the front of the truck-tripping me up.

One more yard, another boot appears, covered with more mud than usual-scratched up from the asphalt.

Two more yards, a turtleneck sweater comes flying into my face, stained a little darker in some places, unraveling at the corners.

Three yards, a scrap of unidentifiable, dark cloth.

Fifteen yards, Ford. Half-naked, beaten, bruised, torn apart-bloodied, crushed, battered. There's too much to take in. The figure before me was sturdy and strong less than a minute ago-tall and firm, broad-chested and warm-but now it's something else entirely. Tossed around until almost torn apart-this thing cannot be my brother.

Naturally, I gather him up into my arms and continue to scream. Screaming at _him_ now. Nothing around me matters-not the hysterical truck-driver dialing 911, or the blood that's covering both Ford, the ground, and myself and still spreading farther. Just Ford.

It isn't real.

It can't be real.

There's no way this is real.

I'm going crazy.

He can't be dead.

But of course he's already dead. He was dead the second the truck hit him and snapped his neck back against it's bug-splattered front.

I cry, I weep, I scream, and scream at everybody who approaches me, and then I scream some more just because I can. I shout and heave and growl and rock back and forth, refusing to let go of him. Because if I let go of him, everything else will let go too, and then the whole world will implode-because Ford is the center of everything, and you can't just _remove_ the center of the universe from its equal half. You can't just kill off somebody's twin because he panicked and ran straight into a logging truck. That can't just _happen_. That _doesn't_ just happen. That happens on the news-that happens on TV-that happens to people who aren't you, people you don't know, people who aren't real because they're just bad news on a screen or in a paper. They aren't your brother.

The rest is a blurr. The ambulance came even though it wasn't needed. The police showed up because nothing this _real_ ever happens in Gravity Falls, Oregon, so of course everyone needed to see. Preparations were made-by me, I think, though I don't remember making any decisions. Coffin sizes, gravestones, plots, what clothes is he supposed to wear during his funeral, because he doesn't have any good clothes and you're his twin brother, but your clothes aren't good enough for him to wear during his funeral. It's his funeral, after all. So I buy him a turtleneck, and a thick belt that he'll never need because he'll never walk again, and a pair of black pants, and a pair of thick boots, and a trench coat with deep pockets. I buy the exact same clothes he's worn everyday since he got back from his thirty years of torture. He refused to wear anything else while he was alive, so why should I let a mortician stuff him into some uncomfortable suit while he's dead? Who cares if I have to fight for it?

It doesn't matter anyway. It wasn't an open casket funeral. If it had been, the guests would have run away screaming.

The guests were few in number, and I'm not sure if I knew any of them personally, but somehow they ended up at the funeral. Ford's crazy old friend-McGucket-showed up hours earlier than anyone else and refused to leave until three hours after the funeral had ended. He brought his son-who looked somber but confused-and insisted on dragging him everywhere, introducing them both as "Fiddleford and Tate McGucket, old friends of Stanford Pines'". I'm not sure if Tate ever really knew Ford, but he seemed willing enough to be there if it would make his dad calm down for a little while.

Lazy Susan showed up. She cried and wailed, even though she must have barely known Ford, from way back when.

Everybody cried, except for me. I had no tears left. The casket was lowered, the dirt was piled up-the prayers were sent up, and the mourners slowly drifted away.

Everything after that big logging truck has just slurred together. No real details. Nothing that pops out at me. Not one memory since then feels like reality. Just dull, aching pain before the tidal wave of pain that I know is about to come crashing down.

I know it's about to knock the breath out of me, as my head pops off the pillow.

"Stan!" he stares into my face, eyes wide with concern. He grasps me by my shoulders, steadying me as our boat rocks back and forth, making my cot sway. He says my name again, squeezing my shoulders now.

"Ford," I mumble. "Ford, ohmygodFord-" I throw away all dignity as I throw my arms around him, refusing to let go.

"Ford, Ford you _died_! You were hit by the truck, it carried you away-it took you so far away, it-"

"Stanley!" he snaps me back to reality, wriggling against my chest-hair fluffed up against my throat as I insist on suffocating him and he finds himself unable to escape. "It was just a nightmare, Stan! Just another nightmare! I'm _fine_. See?" he manages to thrust one of his broad, six-fingered hands into my face. "See?" he repeats, breathless as I continue to hold him by the neck. He wiggles each of his fingers in turn. "I am _not_ dead, Stanley, but I may be soon if you don't let go of me!"

Then the wave of emotion hits me. But instead of the unbearable pain I'd expected in the dream, it's overwhelming, brotherly love. I can't believe he's not dead. I can't believe I really have him, after all those years. I can't believe he's still willing to sail around on this boat with me.

I finally let go of him-and he stares at me, hair tossed every which way now-a bewildered expression in place. "You were saying some pretty scary stuff in your sleep."

"Really-was I?" I start laughing, unable to stop myself now-a crazy grin spreading across my face. "Screw whatever I was saying, Sixer. Let's grab something to eat." I'm really good at picking myself back up.

He hesitates, before letting a warm smile crack across his face-swinging his legs off of my cot. "You snore, too."

I snicker, following him out the door, the first gust of salty air hitting me. I know full well that I snore. "Nuh-uh."

"Yes you do!"

"Don't!"

"Yes you do, and it's unnerving. It's-Stanley, are you even listening to me?"

"You bet I am, Sixer."


End file.
